


One Night in Sodom

by rei_c



Series: Otherside [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, BDSM, Bloodplay, Caning, Drug Use, Edgeplay, F/M, Gangbang, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-08
Updated: 2009-01-08
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6927715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor's having a small party and Sam's the centrepiece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night in Sodom

"I'm having a small gathering," Connor says, voice even and business-casual. "Friday next. Liam will be over to pick you up. Don't worry about dressing, _caoimhe_. We'll take care of that when you get here." Connor hangs up, smile on his face, fingers lingering on the telephone before sliding off. He turns, says, "The PVC trousers, I think. No shirt." 

Liam gets shivers, seeing the expression on his cousin's face. "What are you planning, Connor?" 

Connor's smile turns sly, secretive. "You'll see," he murmurs, leaning forward and pressing his lips against Liam's. Liam kisses back, can't do anything but, and yet he feels the slide of Sam's hands on his shoulders, drawn out by the rune. 

He and Connor haven't fucked in weeks. They share the same bed, still, and exchange casual touches every so often, but neither of them have the slightest interest in fucking each other, not when the lure of Sam, halfway across the city, grows deeper and deeper every hour. 

"Connor," he starts, trails off when the words don't come. "Be careful," Liam finally settles on saying. 

"Always, _m'eudail_ ," Connor purrs. “Don't fret. You won't be able to relax and enjoy what I have planned otherwise and wouldn't _that_ be a waste.”

Liam licks his lips, turns away. As much as he loves his cousin, as much as the draw of Sam has blinded him, he can see clearly enough to know that Connor's pushing at a creature that won't hesitate to push back the second he gets bored. 

Sam is patient enough now. That could change at any moment. Liam wonders if Sam will leave anything of Connor when he decides he's done playing.

\--

Liam goes to pick Sam up from Frankie's, strolls inside and waits at the bar while Frankie goes up and knocks on Sam's door. Liam's never seen Sam's personal room, has never seen what Sam might wear when he's not working or trying to drum up some business; to see Sam come down the steps in a pair of black jeans and a Ramones t-shirt, both tight, ripped up, and faded, it makes him question if Sam's honestly comfortable in that or playing for an audience Liam can't pick out. 

The skin Liam can see is unmarked, smooth and tan and sinfully inviting. Liam's not sure if Connor had asked for a clean slate or if Sam's humouring Connor, knows that Connor likes a blank canvas on which to create art of his own choosing and is letting Connor have his way this time. Neither would surprise Liam. 

"Ready?" he asks, voice steady enough, when Sam gets closer and Frankie's behind the bar, watching them, brazen in his voyeurism.

"Always," Sam replies, with a decadent twist in his voice that Connor attempts but never comes close to reaching. Hearing Sam talk, watching his tongue dart out to wet swollen lips, makes Liam hard, aching, desperate for the slightest touch. 

Sam smiles, as if he knows, and says, "I'll blow you in the car, so long as you promise not to crash." He trails a hand along Liam's arm before sauntering outside.

On one level, Liam knows that Sam acts this way to pull on the rune, to feed from it, in a sense, and keep it strong. On another, he can't decide whether to track down Sam's family to kill them or thank them. Sam's mentioned things about his father now and then, nothing about his brother. What kind of people they were to raise someone, some _thing_ like Sam, Liam doesn't know. He's not sure he wants to find out.

\--

They're not five miles away from the bar when Sam leans over, lets his fingers dance up the inside of Liam's thigh. It's all Liam can do to keep his eyes on the road, his foot barely touching the gas pedal enough to keep a steady speed. His heart is racing, pulse fluttering in his neck and under Sam's teeth. 

“So eager,” Sam murmurs, letting his tongue drag across Liam's earlobe. “I'm flattered, darling, really. But what would your cousin think, hmm?”

“I have your payment in the back,” Liam replies. His hands tighten around the steering wheel and the car jerks as his foot slips, Sam's hand caressing the bulge in Liam's trousers. “Connor said.” 

Sam laughs, nuzzles the juncture of Liam's neck and shoulder. His hair, satin and silk and smelling of honey, brushes against Liam's skin. “Connor said, Connor said.” The words throb against Liam's skin, laugh coiling and riding every inch of Liam's nerves. “Tell me, Liam, something in your own words for once. I'm tired of hearing Connor drip from your mouth.” Sam pauses, lets his fingers glide up under Liam's shirt, playing with hair leading from navel to dick. “Of course,” he goes on, softer, calculating, “that's the only thing of Connor's dripping from you, isn't it? When's the last time he fucked you, Liam? Come on, you can tell me.” 

As desperately as Liam wants to hate Sam for what he's done, he can't help the way his legs spread, as wanton as any whore, as needy as Sam can pretend to be. Sam chuckles, bends down and undoes the button and zipper with his teeth. 

“Suck me,” Liam orders, though there's a hint of waver in his voice. “And do it quick,” he adds, taking one hand off of the steering wheel and wrapping it in Sam's hair, pulling tight. 

“Your wish,” Sam murmurs, right before he takes Liam's cock in to the root, swallowing and working his throat. 

Liam comes in seconds. 

Sam sits back up, daintily wipes at his mouth with the curve of one sharp fingernail. “Ta, lovely. A _very_ satisfying meal.” 

The words, sinuous and curling, make Liam shudder. He wants to fuck Sam. He wants to pull over and wrestle Sam out of the car, bend him in half over the trunk and fuck him until Sam's raw and begging. Or, better yet, press Sam against the hood, let the heat burn into Sam's hands, stomach, dick, let it warm up some heroin and get the drug ready for after they're done, when Liam's boneless and Sam's quiet, for once, mouth shut and body covered in a sheen of sweat too light, too thin for what they've just done. He wants _Sam_ , wants him in every way, any way, right now, forever. 

Sam's hand, warm on Liam's cheek, almost has Liam turning the car into a sidewalk. 

Liam gathers himself quickly, takes his eyes off the road for a brief second, just to see what sort of expression is on Sam's face. 

Sam's eyes are narrow, gleaming the way a cat's might, staring at a mouse, and his smile is sharp enough to cut. 

“What are you doing, pet?” Liam asks, carefully. He looks back at the road; when there's no answer, he lets his eyes flick to Sam, sees Sam still watching him. Deep down, in the most instinctual part of his mind, Liam goes completely, marvelously still. 

A laugh from Sam and Liam kilters, off-balance. “Oh, _Liam_ ,” Sam says. His words are almost warm and his voice bears no evidence of having just given a blow-job. Sam moves, just enough to tilt his head and plant a row of kisses along the line of Liam's jaw. Kisses, and yet they feel like furred-over bites, digging in deep and ripping something away with every movement. 

“Sam?” Liam asks. 

“Don't think that was for free,” Sam warns, tucking Liam's dick in to his trousers, then leaning back, tongue darting out to lick his palm clean.

Liam's hard again, feels the pressure of clothes on his skin like razorblades. Liam nearly misses his turn and, when it's time to park, hits the brakes with a thud. Sam rides out the whiplash movement of the car, opens the door and gets out, stretches with his hands high over his head. Sam's stomach is showing, that tattoo curving around his belly-button. 

Not for the first time, Liam wonders if the person that tattoo refers to is dead. 

\--

Connor's waiting in the foyer; he steps forward and offers his hands to Sam like always. Like always, Sam takes them, dips into a little faux-curtsey. The act should look ridiculous on a man of Sam's height but, like everything Sam does, every movement Sam makes, it tears heat out of Liam's body, sends it wafting over the air, through the runes, and gives Sam's skin a shimmering glow. 

Connor bends down enough to press a chaste kiss to Sam's forehead before Sam rises. “Come on, my darling little whore,” Connor says. “Our guests will be here shortly.” 

“Guests?” Sam asks, drawing out the last letter into a snake-like hiss. Liam sees Connor's eyes darken, pupils starting to dilate, and feels frozen to the core. “You didn't tell me I was entertaining, Connor. I'm not at all prepared.” Sam's words are light, teasing. The tone riding underneath is anything but. 

Connor strokes his thumb across Sam's lips, still the slightest bit pink, puffy, and flicks his eyes to Liam for a split-second. “No preparation required, Sam. I promise.”

Liam's standing there long after Connor's lead Sam to the costuming room. 

\--

Sometimes it's hard pretending to be Connor's secretary. Greeting the twelve men who arrive is not, escorting them to the formal parlour is not, but seeing them fawn over Connor is. Connor waves him away, a casual gesture at first glance but Liam knows it's studied, even knows that Connor's practiced ease will never match the two people it's modeled after. 

One of them is waiting in the darkened kitchen, lounging up against a counter. Liam raises an eyebrow at the way Sam's dressed: a pair of black PVC pants that ride low on his hips and leave nothing to the imagination, tight and clinging to his legs. Liam follows them down, sees that the trousers have been tucked into a pair of knee-high boots, stilettos with six inch heels and no platforms. Women's boots, hard to find in a big enough size, and Liam knows Sam offered not one word of complaint.

“Uncomfortable,” Liam notes, and makes the mistake of looking up. 

Sam's not even looking at him, is checking the gloss on a black-painted nail, which is Liam's only relief. It's torture, too, having free reign to let his eyes feast on the picture before him. Connor's outlined Sam's eyes in brown kohl, given the lines a curl at the end that echoes the curl of the smile on Sam's lips, the curl of Sam's hair falling out of a loose french braid. Liam aches to tuck that strand of hair behind Sam's ears. 

He lets his eyes fall lower, onto cheeks showing the slightest touch of colour, onto burgundy-painted lips and a collar of lace tatted out of silver wire tied tight around Sam's neck, digging in and creating hundreds of tiny pinprick drops of blood. Liam inhales, can taste the smell of metal and blood in the back of his throat, along with a trace of pomegranate and wine. The scent is heady and rich, goes right to his toes and makes them curl.

“Like what you see?” Sam asks. Liam jerks his eyes up from rouged nipples and a touch of glitter on Sam's tattoos, sees a mockery of interest in Sam's eyes. 

“Connor is the consummate artist,” Liam answers. 

Sam's lips twitch. Instead of replying to that, he runs a hand down his side, dragging Liam's eyes along with the movement. Sam's fingers, so long and thin, so graceful and nimble, good at whatever they do, and Liam's mouth goes dry. 

He has to clear his throat to ask, “Did Connor tell you anything about tonight?” His eyes are still stuck on the curve of Sam's hip, the bone that juts out and slopes downward to point at Sam's dick, half-hard inside his clothes. 

“No,” Sam says, pushing off of the counter and slinking forward, pausing just before he gets within touching distance. Sam shifts his weight, cocks one hip out, and folds his arms across his chest. Absurdly, Liam hopes that won't smear anything, can't think of how Connor would react, seeing his work of art defaced and ruined. “And he didn't tell you anything, either,” Sam continues. “How curious.” 

Liam swallows, meets Sam's gaze and is proud of himself when he doesn't flinch. “Don't hurt him,” Liam says. “He. Please don't hurt him.” 

Sam lifts a hand, grazes his fingertips across Liam's lips. “I don't like surprises,” he murmurs, a soft crooning noise that seems like it should be out of place, coming from the mouth of a man like Sam. “Connor knows this.”

There's nothing Liam can say to that. 

\--

Liam gets called back into the parlour, told to entertain the guests while Connor readies the main course. What Connor means, Liam doesn't know, not exactly. His heart still guesses enough to sink. 

The men in the parlour, milling around with snifters of brandy, all have the lean, hungry look of wolves in winter. There is no dinner cooking in the kitchen and Connor never asked him to bring out the good china. 

Liam puts that thought away and focuses on the men. He doesn't recognise any of them and doesn't care to engage in frivolous discussion, not when he knows Connor's planning something and Sam's unhappy but going along with it. Instead, he circulates, trying to remain a part of the background, and tops off glasses, points out a side-table of snacks, keeps the fire stoked and crackling merrily. A sense of anticipation in the air has him half-sick and, yet, he stays. 

Connor throws the door open, finally, and bestows a coy smile on the crowd of men. “Dinner,” he says, gleaming purr in his voice, “is served, gentlemen.” 

\--

Liam lets the men go first, following Connor out of the parlour and down a long hallway to the formal dining room. He brings up the rear, belly tangled up with fear, and freezes when he gets to the main doors of the dining room, eyes taking in the tableau. 

There's nothing on the table except for Sam, propped there on his hands and knees with an apple in his mouth. Candles in sconces are lit as are large candelabras against the walls, small flickering tealights in the windowsills, no artificial lighting, and the sheen of that light against the fruit, against Sam, flickers mesmerisingly. 

Liam can't tear his eyes away, even as the men spread out and surround the table. The slope of Sam's back, the angle of his hips, the curve of his ass, everything about the picture Connor has created is calling Liam to do something, _anything_ , and he's frozen with indecision. His eyes, against Liam's will, move to Connor, see Connor leaning against the wall with a pleased smile on his face. 

“A small show, first,” Connor says, when one of the men gets too close to the table. “I promise, gentlemen, you'll appreciate it.” A murmur of discontent stills abruptly with that comment and the men step back, sit one-by-one into the chairs placed three feet from the table. On one end of the table, there is a stool of dark walnut. Liam wonders if anyone else has noticed it.

Connor knocks on the wall and the side-door, just to the left of him, opens. A girl walks in; she looks young, almost too young for whatever Connor's planning. He opens his mouth but Sam turns his head, lays a liquid glance on Liam. Struck into silence, Liam can only watch as the girl steps in hesitantly, so different from Sam's easy stalking. 

She's wearing white, a sheer, diaphanous babydoll that leaves nothing to the imagination and a white thong with diamonds hanging off of the ties on her hips. The diamonds dance as she walks, counterpoint to her economical movement, and Liam's distracted enough by the contrast between skin dusted with blue glitter and a fabric so white to take a minute noticing the rattan cane clenched in one hand. She doesn't look strong enough to use it, old enough to be experienced, but she takes Connor's hand and steps onto the stool, then the table, with poise. Her feet are bare and her toenails are painted white to match her outfit. 

 

She steps up to Sam, crouches down with her knees together and strokes his hair. Liam can see Sam's face, watches as those green cat's eyes slide from lazy acceptance to burning laughter. The girl stands, her back straight and chin held high. She looks cold, furious. Her rage is a pretty thing, pretty but meaningless. Soft actions don't fool Sam. Wrath does not intimidate him. 

The crack of the cane, when it comes, startles Liam. He'd been watching her face, the glow of her reflection in the apple caught between Sam's teeth, and not her hands. His eyes move at the noise, at the sigh Sam lets slip, and he sees a long, raised line bloom on Sam's skin, twisting across his lower back, reaching out toward one hip. It's dangerous, caning Sam; he doesn't have a spare ounce of fat anywhere on his body and he has runner's muscles, long and tight. Any misplaced strike could cause serious injury; that's never stopped Sam before, never stopped Connor.

In the time it takes Liam to steady himself, to make sure he doesn't say anything that would disrupt the scene, the girl's landed another three strikes on Sam. She's warmed up and, as she continues, starts moving around Sam, lands a strike first on his shoulders, then the back of his legs, then his ass. The collision of cane to PVC makes a noise that sounds as if it stings; Liam doesn't know why Connor had Sam bother with clothes. 

The girl is good and Liam can see her getting increasingly wet every time she takes another step on the wide table, the space between her legs gleaming with a different shine than the sweat starting to cover her body. She's not wearing much but the room is warm and Sam is radiating heat that Liam can feel all the way across the room. 

\--

Sam is covered over with thin stripes of blood and raised white skin by the time Connor holds up a hand and says, “I think you should get a reward for that, my dear. Sam, give her a reward.” 

Liam holds his breath, wonders what the fuck Connor means, but then the girl is taking the apple from Sam's mouth – it stayed, the entire time, and there's only one set of bitemarks – and tossing it to one side. It splatters on the ground, sends pulp spraying everywhere, as she steps up to Sam and yanks his hair, forces his face into her groin. 

“Fuck my pussy,” she orders, her words as sharp as the crack of the rattan. “You made this mess, now clean it up.” 

Sam laughs and Liam can see the girl shiver as the vibration travels over her body. Liam knows what that feels like. He also knows that she no idea what she's unleashing. 

Without moving, Sam starts to lick her, long cat-like stripes that remind Liam of Sam's tongue against his dick. Liam can't look away, has to watch as Sam makes a show of this. The sounds of wet tongue against hot flesh are the only sounds in the room; no one but the girl seems to be breathing. 

She still has one hand wrapped in Sam's hair but she isn't ordering him around anymore, too busy trying to remain standing as her body shakes. The men are all leaning forward, watching intently, and Liam sees one of them jump the first time the girl moans. She's trembling, every inch of her, looks as if she's going to fall down, as if her knees are going to give out, as if she's going to explode. 

Sam makes a noise and lifts his hands, maintaining his pose even without the extra balance. He tugs her hips closer, buries his face deeper into her, then pulls her down. She crashes onto the table and, even as she's trying to gain back a little control, Sam uses one hand to force her flat. Hair spirals out in every direction as he spreads one palm across her stomach and digs two fingers into her cunt. The amount of pressure he's leaving on her stomach, to keep her flat, as still as possible, has to be leaving marks. 

She hooks her feet on Sam's back, heels slipping in blood before they dig in. Sam's nibbling on her clit, fingers curling in and out of her too slowly for any relief. She starts to squirm, to make noises that plead for more. One strap of her babydoll slips off a shoulder and Liam watches as one breast is exposed. Her nipple looks as hard as the diamonds pressing into her hips. Her skin is flushed, glitter coating the table as she writhes.

Sam keeps going at the same pace without any signs of stopping. The girl's practically crying, reduced to wordless begging, by the time Connor says, “Finish it, Sam. We have other things to do.” Connor's hard in his trousers; one of the men has his dick out and is stroking it, no shame in the act at all. 

Liam wonders when that happened. 

Sam doesn't say anything, doesn't move his mouth to answer, but he speeds up the rhythm of his fingers. The girl pants, every muscle in her body tense, and lifts her neck enough to stare at Sam.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” she keens, looking down at Sam with wide eyes a moment before she slams her head back against the table and screams. The noise lasts forever, echoes off of the walls and undulates in time with Sam's laughter. 

She's still a shuddering, wrecked mess when Connor pulls her down from the table by her hair and throws her out of the room. 

\--

Sam retakes his pose, face covered in the girl's come, curls of hair sticking to his skin. He raises an indolent eyebrow, as if to say, 'What next?'

Connor's smile scares Liam. Liam twitches, finds Connor's eyes and Sam's both land on him a second later. Sleek, deadly animals, the both of them, but Sam's _more_ : more beautiful, more dangerous. If Liam didn't know how fascinated Connor is with Sam, how obsessed Connor is, he'd assume that Connor's jealous of Sam, that or trying to break him. The first would be foolish, the latter suicidal.

They both stare, amused, and Sam blinks, turns his head with easy indulgence back to Connor. Sam hasn't said one word since they've all entered the dining room, hasn't moved his knees. The PVC will stick to the table when Sam eventually tries to get up. 

“Under each of your chairs, gentlemen,” Connor says, startling everyone in the room, “you will find a gift. You may take turns using them on Samuel, ten minutes at a time. When he's,” Connor pauses, trying to pick the perfect word, smiles as he goes on, “prepared, you may take your own pleasure from him.” 

Each one of the men moves, bends over to take something from under his chair. At the same time as they're studying whips, knives, ropes, clamps, candles, Connor takes a syringe from his pocket and steps toward the table. 

“Happy birthday,” Connor says. He taps the needle, pushes the plunger to send a small stream of liquid toward one of the whip-marks on Sam's back, already knitting back together. 

Sam's smile is dark and shadowed. “Is it?” he asks. “I hadn't noticed.” 

Connor laughs and reaches out, caressing Sam's face before cupping Sam's chin and lifting. Sam's smile deepens even as Connor's pushing the tip of the needle into Sam's neck. Connor forces all of the liquid into Sam, bends down and licks a drop of blood away. He steps back and says, eyes fixed on Sam's, “Gentlemen. Shall we begin?” 

\--

How Sam can kneel there without moving is beyond Liam, especially for so long. It's been two hours and each of the men has taken his turn. Sam's body is littered in cuts and welts, bruises and marks. Parts of the PVC have melted onto his skin and the make-up on his body has been smeared with sweat and blood and clumps of cooling wax. 

When the last man, a narrow-hipped, boyish-looking man, steps back and lets a violet wand clatter on the floor, Liam finally blinks, draws a shuddering breath. The room is quiet, a deep, terrifying quiet, and his exhale sounds loud enough to be deafening. 

Nobody moves, barely seems to breathe, until Connor claps. “Now,” he says. Liam sees one of the men lick his lips. 

They come for Sam all at once, tear the boots off of his feet, the PVC from his legs. Liam can hear Sam's skin ripping but the men don't stop. One of the first, the fastest, opens Sam's mouth and forces his dick down Sam's throat, another pushes into Sam's ass without preparation. 

Liam's shocked at the spectacle, at the way these men are shoving one another, are taking use of Sam's mouth, ass, hands. Even after Sam's covered in blood-tinged come and his skin is glowing the colour of burnished gold, they don't stop. 

Exhaustion finally does them in, dropping back one at a time to sit on a chair, dazed and trying to catch breath that Sam's body has stolen. As the last man grunts, pulls out of Sam's ass, Connor motions for Liam to move. Funny, but Liam hasn't stepped away from the door since he first walked in and saw Sam poised on the table like the main course Connor promised. 

Liam's knees lock but somehow he finds a way to walk, crosses the distance between him and Connor until he's close enough for Connor to reach out and tug. Connor's lips are cold when they press against Liam's, cold and hard and thin. 

“Your turn, _m'eudail_ ,” Connor murmurs. He leans, sucks Liam's earlobe, then whispers, “Whatever you want to do to him.” 

A swallow, and Liam turns away from his cousin. Sam is gleaming, unashamed of his nudity to the point of revelling in it. He makes a pretty picture, sitting on the table, leaning back on one hand, legs spread and cock hard, straining. His bruises are healing already; one yellow mark, over his collarbone, fades back into Sam's skin as Liam stares. The open wounds will take longer but there won't be any remnant of them by this time tomorrow. 

Liam forces himself to take one step towards Sam, then another, then another, until his stomach is flush with the wood. He beckons with one finger; Sam slides close, wraps his legs around Liam. 

“What would you have me do, darling?” he asks, coy, full of teasing sensuality. Liam's eyes follow Sam's hand, lifting towards plush lips. Sam makes a show of sucking in one fingertip, cheeks hollowing and emphasising the cut of his cheekbones. 

“Let me suck you,” Liam says, voice rough, rasping. 

Sam tilts his head, fixing a scorching heat on Liam, one that burns and makes Liam flush. “Not fuck me?” Sam asks. “You wanted to, earlier. Couldn't think of much else, could you? And now the sudden change. I'm flattered, Liam, but if you want a fuck, you should ask. Not so often that Connor's this quick to offer me up. Is it because I've been stretched open already? Because I have the come of twelve different men leaking out of my ass?" Sam smirks, reaches out and drags his nails down Liam's cheek. He goes on, tone a softer twist of beguiling abandonment. "Have we finally found something to make you squeamish, Liam?” 

“Pet,” Liam says. “Shut up and lift your hips.” 

Wry amusement covers Sam's face but he does as directed. Liam bends down, opens his mouth, and takes Sam in. The taste, sour and salty, inhuman and deadly, makes Liam's head spin. 

Sam comes. As soon as Liam swallows, licks his lips to get the last lingering taste of Sam's orgasm, Liam wants more. 

With Sam, there is no such thing as enough.

\--

Connor leads Sam out, tells the men that there are rooms available for their use if they choose to stay, that Liam will direct them. Every single one of them decides not to leave, not with the smell of sex and blood staining them. Liam gets them settled and then goes back to the bedroom that he and Connor share. 

It's empty. 

It stays empty all night, save for Liam, curled up tight and shivering in the middle of the bed.


End file.
